Little Wing
by That One Random
Summary: The first time they say it to each other, they don't even realise they say it. The first time they say it to the other, something clicks and it's like they're both locked onto each other and no one else could ever stand a chance. The first time they say it to the other. After that comes a million more 'I love you's. Homecoming 'verse, Spideychelle


The first way she says it is before either of them are fully aware of this... _thing_ between them. Before she's aware of Spider-Man, aware of the entire shit-show he throws himself into on a regular basis. Before.

He's sporting a horrid black eye and a cut lip. He tries to hide it but his limp is gut-wrenching. His shirt lifts up and whilst on any other day, Michelle would be... _appreciative_ of the Parker Abs™, she can see that his side is covered in fresh blue bruises. Sure, his hood is up, he has a baggy top on and he's sat near the back of their first class so he doesn't get gawked at but she notices all the same. Observant like that.

 _See: Obsessed_

She feels concern. A bone-deep concern that settles in her stomach and refuses to leave her alone.

The first way she says it is during their free, in the library. It's the one free they share together that week without Ned. Normally, it's a companionable silence. One of the rare times she sees Peter's legs stop bouncing, sees his fingers stop tapping. They request for pens, rulers, books to be passed to each other quietly and if their hands brush and linger a little too long as they do so, what does it matter? It's just them after all.

Michelle takes a seat next to Peter instead of opposite him this time. Any other time, her body would be screaming at her to get away, to get some distance but it's _Peter_ and he's _hurt_. She makes a bit of a commotion getting her stuff out so as not to surprise him too much and gently lowers his hood after checking the library is deserted.

His injuries look worse up close. His black eye is swollen slightly, there are a dozen tiny little cuts across his cheeks and she can see some more dipping under his collarbone. Hell would freeze before she admitted she wanted to kiss them better like one of those saps out of television.

'Are you alright?' She asks. It's patently obvious that he isn't but she needs a starting point. Her tone is softer than it's ever been before in his presence and it shocks even her a little that she can be so gentle.

He doesn't know how to react. He stutters, mouth gaping and it would have been comical if not for the way he winces as his split lip stretches. In the back of her head, some part of her very desperately wants to take a copy of her thickest book to the head of whoever did this to him.

'Would you like to talk about it?' Is her next question, cutting across the sputtering with a lackluster roll of the eyes. It's careful but patient here, her tone. Concerned, but respectful. It lets him know that if he says no, she's alright with that.

For a moment, he closes his eyes, like he's struggling with himself. Later, she finds that he nearly spilled it to her, there and then, and she can't help but laugh a little when he confides this tiny little thing to her. When he opens them, his eyes are soft, pleading her to understand his answer, that he isn't saying it to shut her off.

'No...I-I want to but...I can't.' He offers her a small, warm smile. It's a quiet little thing and she files it away into Things that make her heart beat faster. It's a rapidly growing pile. 'Really, I would if I could but...It's personal. I'm sorry.'

She smiles right back at him, nudging his shoulder with hers as she turns and opens her book. 'Don't be sorry loser. Just kick the other guys ass twice as hard next time.'

How she says it the first time isn't actually in verbal words. It's in how she sits beside him for the next few days until the injuries clear up. It's in how she wraps a protective leg around his during lunch when his leg's going just a little too fast to just be energy. It's in how she nudges his shoulder, how she brushes his hand, how she smiles warmly at him, freely and unrestrained. It's in the easy banter, the casual insults and paper balls off his head when he isn't looking. She knows he's back to a hundred percent when he catches one without looking, without wincing.

The first time she says I love you is in how she doesn't leave his side and helps prop him back up without fear or pity where everyone else treated him like glass.

And God al-fucking-mighty, he was grateful for that.

* * *

The first time he says it is clumsy, as expected. Again, it's before she knows about Spider-Man. But she's close enough to know about the nightmares, the horrible, claustrophobic feeling he gets sometimes as he goes between classes. Close enough to smack him on the head and then tell him to call her if he needs to.

 _Fuck the time_ , are her precise words. _There are too many books to read to sleep._

He snorts at that and promises he would call if it got bad without her or Ned or May around.

He keeps his promise on just another night, because of just another nightmare. His phones in his hand and the dial tone is ringing before he even registers what he's doing because, honestly? MJ always had felt like home. Safe. Calming. He needed that right now.

She picks up the phone after the second dial and her low, almost husky _'Parker?'_ Simultaneously makes it a little easier to breathe and a little harder.

 _Hearing that every morning wouldn't be too bad_ is a fleeting thought he has as he hears his name on her lips. He chases it away with big shooing motions in his head and realises that he probably woke her up.

'I-I woke you up, I'm sorry, so sorry just go back to sleep never mind, it's-'

' _Stay.'_

He finds it downright disrespectful that a single word, said in that tone of voice, at this time of night, had so much power. But it works and he quickly shuts up, closing his eyes as the room swims and that momentary calmness passes him by.

He's back under the rubble again, except this time, in front of him are bodies. May, Ned, Tony, MJ, everyone he ever cared about in front of him, their empty eyes looking right at him as he gasps and pants and cries under the crushing weight of that building. He can't breathe, there's dust everywhere, those cold eyes are taunting him, asking him _why weren't you good enough Peter? Why couldn't you save us Peter?_

 _'Breathe Peter. Just breathe.'_

God, he can't breathe, the smell of blood and dust and mud is filling his nostrils, the stench of the dead crawling into his lungs, his heart and settl-

' _It's alright Parker. Easy. Just breathe. In and out, slowly'_

He doesn't realise he's complying until he hears himself exhale slowly. Michelle's talking, her voice soothing and rock-steady and he clings onto it like a lost ship does a lighthouse. She talks him down and he's able to ease that iron grip on his bedsheets, that sheen of sweat slowly cools down and before he knows it, he's laughing quietly at something she's said. He writes down a few books she thinks he would like, and she scribbles down a few indie films he thinks she would like.

Before he realises it, he can breathe again and it isn't the smell of a battlefield that fills his lungs, it's the smell of home.

The first time he says it is clumsy, but it isn't verbal. It's by greeting her with her favourite coffee in the morning; she had told him the night before and he had hastily scrawled it down on his arm before sleeping. It's by her catching him putting a metric fuck-ton of chocolate in her locker ( _Parker you dick, it'll melt_ -She says it with a smile though, so he figures it's alright). It's by catching her eye in class like always and for once, not looking away. It's by resting his leg against hers at lunch.

In short, he stops running at a million miles an hour. He stops, he breathes in and opens his eyes.


End file.
